


Hair Trigger

by snarechan



Series: Firearm Ideology [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Implied Relationships, M/M, Original Character(s), Parallel Universes, Teamwork, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 06:04:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7156547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarechan/pseuds/snarechan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hair Trigger: </p><p>noun<br/>1. a trigger that allows the firing mechanism of a firearm to be operated by very slight pressure. </p><p>adjective<br/>2. America impulsively deciding he needs a bigger gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair Trigger

**Author's Note:**

> It's been my fandom goal to write America wielding a tank like people would a handgun and so instead of letting my dream be a dream I finally did it. (☆◕ヮ◕ฺ)ノ₀:*･ﾟ✧ 
> 
> This is another one-shot that spiraled into a full-blown series, and encouraged by [resident-longwinded-anon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/resident_longwinded_anon) and their [challenge meme](http://resident-longwinded-anon.tumblr.com/post/99087361601/its-fairly-self-explanatory-i-think-i-was) that I found (specifically parallel universes/war). There's no real "ending" planned, although there will be an order of events, centered on ~~how terrible an idea~~ what it might be like if these two were in a situation to work together in a semi-distant future setting.
> 
> And lastly, thanks to [PunsBulletsAndPointyThings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PunsBulletsAndPointyThings/) for taking the time and effort to edit my Hetalia backlogs! I'm grateful to have the opportunity to post better stories. If any noticeable errors remain please let me know; for some reason AO3 has been screwing with my story formats and I'm sure I've missed some things.

Ears buzzing. Vision impaired. Sensation returned to America's limbs in stages. When he could twitch his fingers they stuck in the mud. He shoved, with the intention of regaining his footing and flopped over on his back instead. Sinking into the ground America knew there would be an imprint there, like a mock-snow angel, if he could just stop feeling punch-drunk and _get up_.

Time slowed as he reached for his glasses. One lens was knocked loose and lost forever in the muck. The other piece had a fracture that crossed its entire length. Evidently the eyewear hadn't survived the blast intact. _Houston is going to have a problem with this_ , America thought, but there wasn't much to be done about his glasses or partial eyesight. Either he kept what remained in place or trek across the battlements blind.

Then all at once his hearing resumed in one ear. Soldiers shouting and bombs exploding began as a dull roar that returned to full volume in real speed. A single voice in particular was close. America glanced over to see the man he'd bodily shielded yelling at him.

"Sorry. What?" America asked. The enemy's ambush, an air raid, was finished. According to the announcements filtering through his earpiece their ground troops were rushing in to complete the job. _Yeah, right_. America sat up, forcing himself past the wave of dizziness to stand.

The individual who'd spoken to him also rose to his feet and repeated the question. "A-are you all right?" He was young – although not really, but the stutter gave away the fact he was new to warfare. The patch on his uniform read 'Peterman'. America made a point to learn and memorize it.

"Forget about me, buddy. Ready your gun," he instructed, and did the same with his own weapon, "and don't let up, okay?"

After that exchange both sides clashed, their adversaries descending on his regiment. America got separated from Peterman, or Peterman got separated from him. There was little else he could do about that except bash heads in, and prevent himself from getting riddled full of bullets.

Progressing onward and surpassing his troop, America stumbled across the evidence of recent tank activity. Russian units had gone on ahead, and in doing so took the brunt of the strike. The unit must have fared well against the initial barrage; if the enemy aircraft had been stupid enough to fly too close they wouldn't have stood a chance.

There was just one stopped on the far side of the field. On getting closer America was nearly butted in the head with an enemy rifle because he'd wavered at the sight of what insignia was on its side. That was _Russia's_ tank. He grit his teeth and roundhouse kicked the opposing soldier, forgetting everything else as he ran towards the T-17.

The hull had obvious wear. Numerous dents and dirt caked its armor plating. Nothing that should have forced it to a standstill, though. Heavy cursing in more than one language and banging came from inside, telling of a different story. America climbed up high enough so when he punched an opening and peeled the metal aside he peered within the capsule.

"Ivan! Ivan, are you alive in there?" The inside was dimly lit, but America was capable of identifying five people. Russia was dog piled by two enemy combatants; one clung to his back in an attempt to choke hold him while the other soldier foolishly went at him with a knife. Russia had that threat by the front of their uniform and a fist raised to punch them in the face. His squadmate was handling the third. Everyone had ceased what they were doing in mid-motion at his impromptu arrival.

Concluding that Russia wasn't in some kind of real danger, America said, "Quit clowning around! Enemy reinforcements are going to be here any minute."

"Then please, do not be putting holes in my tank." Russia followed through and coldcocked the knifeman. He then slammed his entire body backwards against the walls of the tank to dissuade the attacker hanging onto him.

America dropped to the ground in time to spot that aforementioned next wave of opposing forces. _Intel is a little slow today_ , he noted with resignation. Nobody had anticipated this degree of an offensive. The volume of incoming soldiers were hitting them way too fast for America's liking. Biting his lip for a second, he called out, "Ivaaan? How long do you think it'll take to resume your tank operation?"

A body flew out of the opening he'd made – wearing their opposition's colors. They let out a horrified shriek as they landed in the mud at America's boots before passing out. "Still cleaning up. Seven minutes or so?"

"Make it three," America ordered. Unlike the previous two barrages, this attack was originating from the south. Calculating that Russia manned his T-17 again, maneuvering it wouldn't be a problem if time wasn't so precious. Decision made, America re-situated himself in the front as another body was tossed from inside, then the third and final soldier. He squared his shoulders and hunched, hefting the entire vehicle to re-position it accordingly.

Cries rang out, although these were of surprise. Bodies shifted around inside – left and then right and then left again – so America rapidly adjusted for the mass redistribution. "What are you doing?" Russia asked, his accent super thick in his surprise, but he couldn't mind that at the moment.

"I aim and you shoot! Got it?" America asked.

"That does not explain—"

"Aim!" he said, and directed the cannon towards the encroaching horde. There was no room for error here. At this short a distance their group would be overrun and at the mercy of the entire onslaught if they didn't impede them now. In his position below he felt as well as heard the automatic loader system activate. "Ivan, anytime would be nice!"

There wasn't a single warning. The tank fired and America had to compensate for the recoil. It tipped precariously. Breathing through his teeth, America tightened his grip and added some new dents with just his fingers. Able to correct it, he shifted his stance and said, "Again. Aim!"

They continued this way until the cannon was smoking and America heard in his headset that their field units had regrouped. He set the tank down, backend first, and dropped the rest as gently as possible. The ground still shook. As soon as America let go ally men and women rushed out of the woods to secure the area.

Not long after what was left of the enemy fled. America glanced up as his air forces jettisoned overhead. At their speeds and altitudes he caught a glimpse of their tails before each vanished into the clouds. With the additional support he allowed himself to slouch against the tank, confident that their troops could finish the rest.

Russia's squadmate tumbled out. She was somewhat green-faced, but wasn't complaining. For that America respectfully gave her a two-fingered salute. Russia followed out next, at a notably more sedate pace, and issued her an order in his native language. She acknowledged it and began to secure their attackers from before.

"Cutting it close?" America asked, tapping on Russia's upper body. The knife wielder had managed to get in a hit before Russia knocked them out – a long gash that spanned his broad chest. The cut only penetrated the top layer; the protective vest underneath was unscathed. One of his medals hadn't made it. On the bottom of a ribbon it was sheared off, but the rest was still pinned in place.

America was missing most of his. These days he was as decorated as Russia, but America opted to stave his rank and left his honors at home. Where Russia had no reservations in assuming whatever leadership roles to bestow his centuries of battle experience, America preferred to join in the lower ranks where most of his people resided. He'd advanced once or twice, but sparingly. No matter the position, America's superiors knew better than to lecture him, anyway.

Neither option was faulty, but he enjoyed teasing Russia about it from time-to-time. "Haven't I warned you not to wear all that? Weighs you down."

"Your concern is unwarranted, as always. Save such worry for oneself," Russia said. He ran his knuckles alongside America's face, who flinched when they caught on something. Turned out he'd run around with shrapnel residue on the left half of his head, which explained his limited hearing. America assumed the missile explosions had blown out his eardrum.

"To be honest I didn't even notice." Except America kind of noticed _a lot_. Given that attention had been brought to the injury he could identify the sluggish flow of blood. Normally such inflictions would've healed in minutes, an hour tops, due to their size, but the residue wedged into them prevented his body from closing the wounds completely.

"Jones! Hey, Jones!"

"Hm?" America turned. Immediately his mood lightened at spotting Peterman. The soldier was sweatier than before, not to mention harried and ragged. But he was whole and alive, and America felt relieved. "Good to see you, pal! What'cha got?"

Peterman slid to a stop and, upon noticing Russia there in his higher-ranked uniform, opted to offer a slack military salute. "I just got wind that enemy lines have broken. We're advancing into their territory to flush them out. And, uh, I think you're bleeding?"

Ignoring the mention on his appearance, America side-eyed Russia and said, "That's, like, eight-hundred yards."

Russia smiled. "You need lift?"

"That'd be mighty kind of ya, yeah."

He didn't stop grinning, but there was a distinct shift in his expression that even someone human like Peterman sensed as unsettling. "Too bad. _Someone_ put hole in my tank and ruin treads. We retaliate old-fashioned way."

America sighed, but it was merely for show. He'd already marched this far – what was a little more?

"Then after you…Sir." America made an exaggerated motion towards the edge of the field. Russia may have scoffed, but it was lost in the way he fixed his non-military issued scarf and ordered his squadmate to remain behind to handle the prisoners. Then he started in the direction of their opposition's earlier retreat. Despite his words America kept in step with him, and Peterman behind them, and together all three men made headway to rejoin the fight.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact! T-17s do not exist, but with the advancements being made to Armatas I would not be surprised if Ivan would have shiny, new tanks in my made up parallel-future-universe. I debated on whether or not they would even still be manned by soldiers since the T-14s and T-15s are so much more self-sufficient, but the idea of Ivan's tank being commandeered by Alfred while Ivan was remote controlling it (kind of like a drone) versus Ivan still being inside it was too amusing to pass up.
> 
> Check out my [writing blog on Tumblr](http://snaurus.tumblr.com/) for more content!


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